


I Miss Missing You (Now and Then)

by BronteBronte



Category: All Elite Wrestling, Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Alternate Universe - Small Town, Exes, M/M, idk you ever see an ex and it turns out you're both football coaches, just buy into it idk, same, small town au but AEW and WWE are rival towns/high schools, this deals with sports but yet no wrestling, this is based on a tumblr conversation I had, wild i know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2021-01-13 01:33:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21235937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BronteBronte/pseuds/BronteBronte
Summary: They chewed you up and spit you out, so you opened a real estate business fifteen miles away from town limits.akaThe fic where Cody returns to town years after the breakup that destroyed him.





	I Miss Missing You (Now and Then)

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by a conversation I had with Nerdbrose on Tumblr about a small town AU they were creating and it took me forever to write it! But I have been on a fic-finishing-and-publishing streak, hence why this fic was born. I had to look up football terminology for this, so I feel like I deserve some kind of applause.
> 
> Fic title is from Miss Missing You by Fall Out Boy (because I am emo trash).
> 
> I don't own anyone in this fic. They are real people. If you are them I would rather you just didn't read it (although I'm a big fan).

They chewed you up and spit you out, so you opened a real estate business fifteen miles away from town limits.

You said that it was pure coincidence. You told everyone who asked that it was the perfect location for business. But deep down you knew it was so you could achieve everything you ever dreamed of while looking at the town that stabbed you in the back. At every person who stabbed you in the back.

You spend two months building yourself a new life. You sell two houses in a month. You buy yourself a new suit. You learn how to cook more than ramen. You buy a bottle of scotch because you’re the kind of man who can buy a bottle of scotch for himself now.

You’re in between showings when you spot a flyer for the local high school in the window of a coffee shop. 

**PART TIME ATHLETIC COACH NEEDED. STARTING IMMEDIATELY. APPLY AT LINK BELOW.**

You took the flyer off the glass and stole glances at it as you drove to a fixer-upper on the other side of town.

You applied as soon as you get home.

* * *

Unsurprisingly, you get the job.

“You won nationals and you’re a Penn State man? You can start on Thursday if you’d like.” The principal says to you, beaming as you shake his hand. He hands you the schedule for the season and you feel a pit forming in your stomach.

You ran away from there. Now you’re slowly inching your way back. And you're scared he’s right around the corner.

* * *

When you arrive the team is in shambles. The quarterback-Adam, he tells you as he shakes your hand-has tried to run practices, but he’s just a kid. Plus, the team won’t stop arguing with each other long enough to actually plan any plays. 

You blow the whistle around your neck long enough for everyone to stop bickering and look at you. You take a deep breath and try to remember to project as you speak.

“My name is Coach Rhodes. They informed me that your last coach quit on you a week into the season. I’d call him weak, but seeing the state of this team? I don’t blame him.” Some men stand up straighter at your words-others snicker, others murmur. “You want West Wilson to keep kicking your ass? Fine by me. Or you can listen. And we can win.”

One kid steps forward from the group, a smirk forming on his face.

“And uh, why exactly should we listen to you?” He asks. You step forward, watching the smile falter on the kid’s face.

“Listen, Mr…”

“Friedman, sir.”

“Mr. Friedman. I went to West Wilson. In fact, I led West Wilson to their first PIAA championship in three years. Then I led them to their second one. And then their third. Then Penn State called because they needed my help that god damn bad. So why should you listen to me?” You ask, shifting your gaze to the rest of the team. “Because I know what the hell I’m doing.”

The Friedman kid steps back into line with the rest of the team, pleased with this answer.

“Now let’s get to work!” You yell.

Okay, so maybe you missed this a little.

* * *

You’re thankful that you technically haven’t started the season, because the team needs work. It takes a few weeks, but slowly and surely you start to see a difference. The kids are talking to each other more, communicating and using the plays you taught them. They begin to warm up to you too. After a particularly tough practice, Friedman approaches you. He breaks into a smile and says “You know coach, you’re not so bad after all.”

So you start to think you’re not so bad too.

That is, of course, until the first game of the season.

* * *

You could’ve sworn you weren’t supposed to face West Wilson until the end of the month, but you find yourself proven wrong as the bus crosses over into the town you swore you’d never venture back into. 

You watch as you pass by the places you used to visit after school. The pizza place where you’d grab a bite to eat after practice. The rundown library that you used to be kicked out of. The spot behind the drugstore where he kissed you for the first time. The parking lot where you used to fool around in his car. 

The train tracks where he broke your heart.

You go down the mental checklist of every person you could run into who would recognize you. Every person who thinks you’re pathetic. Every person who sided with _ him _.

You grip the back of the seat in front of you, thinking you might pass out.

“Hey coach? You alright?” A voice across the aisle asks. You look to see Taylor and Baretta looking at you, concerned.

“Yeah man. You look like you’re dying.” Trent says, only to be punched in the shoulder by Chuck, letting out a yelp in response.

“Dude, you can’t just tell him he looks like he’s dying. That’s just gonna freak him out more.”

“Oh, crap. You’re right. Uh, sorry Coach. You look great.” Trent grimaces and turns to Chuck. “Better?”

“Not even a little.” Chuck says in response. You force yourself to swallow the lump in your throat and speak.

“I’m fine guys. Let’s just focus on winning today, alright?” You say, trying to sound as convincing as possible.

“Don’t worry about it Coach. We got Orange on our team. I’d like to see Orton’s pervs try to beat that.” Chuck smiles and turns to the smaller strawberry blonde kid who has apparently been sitting there the whole time. You would focus on the fact that another player just appeared from nowhere but you can’t. Did Chuck just say Orton?

Of course it would be Orton.

* * *

You make it through stretching and warm-ups looking over your shoulder at every turn. You get the team pumped up in the locker room. Telling them encouraging things about how they can accomplish anything they put their minds to, and how they’re the best, and how they’re fighters. 

You try to tell yourself the same thing.

You’re the best. You’re a fighter. You’re the best. You’re a fighter.

But then your eyes meet his, and you don’t think you’re much of anything at all.

* * *

He looks different, but also frustratingly the same. He’s older, sure, but his face is still the same one that smiled at you in secret, lacing your fingers together. It’s the same face that told you he couldn’t be with you ever again.

You can’t imagine how this looks to anyone else right now. Both of you staring at each other across a football field, mouths agape and eyes intense. He moves towards you and you can feel your heart skip a beat, but whatever he’s about to say is cut off by the cheerleading squad running out on the field, leading the crowd in an obnoxious chant. Over the speakers a voice announces that it’s time for the game to start, and you both can’t talk now. You have to pretend that you aren’t seeing each other for the first time in five years and that you’re not sure if you will punch each other or collapse in each other’s arms.

* * *

Your team wins. Just barely, but by enough. The crowd is disappointed, frustrated that they’ve been beaten on their home turf.

Your teams line up to shake hands, and you wait with bated breath at the end of the line. 

Your hands meet at the end of the line and you see it in his eyes. The remorse. The forgiveness. The want.

“Good game.” He says. Five years apart and the first thing you hear him say is _ good game _. It sounds better than anything you could’ve imagined.

“Thank you. That means a lot.” You reply.

He looks down, dropping your hand and beginning to rub the back of his neck. 

“Maybe.” He smiles sheepishly. “You would want to get together for coffee sometime and discuss strategy?”

You try to stop the smile from growing on your face, but you know it’s no use.

“Yeah.” You say. “I would like that.”

Maybe you don’t mind this place so much after all.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed leave kudos and review and if you didn't honestly just walk away because ignorance is bliss.


End file.
